The Legacy
“Don’t be silly,” Geneva said. “She can’t possibly have anything of value.” But her son didn’t listen and gathered the blanket and a small bundle into his arms. A book fell out of the bundle and he picked it up and tucked it beneath his jacket. “Mummy, she has a book.”
The boy crawled into the front seat of the touring car while Farrell helped Geneva and the woman into the rear. Geneva nestled the child in her lap, wrapping the girl in her cloak and trying to warm her little limbs with her body. But there wasn’t much she could do for the young woman. She looked as if she were half dead of starvation. And who knows what fever she might be carrying?
Geneva had been sorely tempted to leave her there, to take the girl to safety first and then come back and look after her mother. But it would not have been the Christian thing to do and Geneva prided herself in her adherence to a strict standard of moral behavior.
Farrell pulled the car out onto the street and headed west out of Dublin. “Drive quickly,” Geneva said, “but not too quickly, for the wind can be bitter cold back here.” She adjusted her hat pin, then wrapped the trailing ends of her veil around her neck. It was at least a thirty-minute drive back to Porter Hall. “Hand me that lap robe, Edward,” she shouted.
Then little boy crawled up onto his knees and shoved the heavy fur robe over the back of the seat. Geneva clumsily covered the young woman. “What is your name?” she asked, shaking her awake.
The woman moaned, then looked at Geneva through glazed eyes. “Where am I?”
“What is your name?” Geneva repeated.
“Rose,” she said. “Rose Byrne.
“And the child?”
“Her name is—” A fit of coughing interrupted her and she pulled the lap robe up to her mouth. When she’d finally regained her voice, she sighed softly and closed her eyes again. “Her name is Mary Grace.”
Geneva looked down at the child. Mary was such a common name among the Irish. Every other girl in the countryside was named Mary. But Grace was a fitting name for a child found outside a church. “Grace,” Geneva murmured. She tickled the girl’s cheek. “You are Grace.”
The rest of the drive passed relatively quickly. Rose slept the entire route while Edward rested his chin on the back of the front seat and watched the scene before him. “What are we going to do with that girl?” he asked.
“Her name is Grace. Her mother is Rose. And I suspect we will take care of them until they are both well and then we’ll send them on their way. It is an act of charity to help those less fortunate, Edward, and this is a lesson you would do well to remember. We were sent to that church for a reason today. It was God’s will.”
When they reached Porter Hall, Geneva ordered the car taken around to the kitchen entrance. Farrell carried Rose inside with Geneva and Edward trailing along behind, the little girl toddling between them. The two kitchen maids and Cook were left speechless by their unexpected entrance, but Geneva wasn’t about to make any long-winded explanations to the help.
“Warm some soup,” she ordered. “Farrell, take Rose upstairs and put her in the yellow room, across the hall from my chambers. Betsy, heat some water so that we might wash the grime off of her and the child. I want blankets and a clean nightgown brought up. And we must feed them both, perhaps some warm milk and porridge to start.” The servants stared at her, unsure of what to do, and Geneva cursed softly. “Don’t stand there with your mouths agape, do as I say. Now!”
With that, she picked up the little girl, resting her on her hip, then she walked out of the kitchen and up the rear stairway to the bed chambers on the second floor. Farrell had already settled Rose in the yellow room and Geneva set the little girl at the foot of the bed.
“Shall I fetch Lord Porter?” Farrell asked. “He’s at the mill today.”
“What could he possibly do to help?” Geneva asked. “You will go for the doctor and I will inform Lord Porter of this myself when he returns home.”
Geneva bit back an oath. Ever since Charlotte’s death three years ago and Geneva’s subsequent breakdown, the servants had been particularly watchful. She suspected they’d been ordered to report any unseemly activity or behavior to her husband, for though they were deferential to her, Lord Porter paid their wages.
Surely this latest incident would call her sanity into question, but Geneva had already begun to formulate a plan to keep Rose and her daughter at Porter Hall. Once the young woman had recovered, they would offer her a job. There were always scullery maids coming and going. She could start there and work her way up. And then, her child could take on some simple duties once she was old enough.
Geneva looked down at the little girl’s face, wondering at how a child of such common birth could be so pretty. Perhaps Geneva would take Grace under her wing, as she had her own daughter. Charlotte had just begun to appreciate fine music and art when the angels had come for her.
The spiritualist Geneva had visited in London just last month had assured her that Charlotte would return, that she would make her spirit known to Geneva before the third anniversary of her death. And now she had come again, reborn in this beautiful little girl. Geneva dared not believe it was true, but it had to be. All the signs were there, just as the spiritualist had told her.
She examined the child closely. The girl wore nothing more than a rough linen shift with ragged underclothes beneath. She stripped them off, carefully examining her before counting her toes and fingers. “Well, Grace, you don’t seem to be in such bad health for such a horrid beginning in life.” The girl watched her silently. Though she was small, her arms and legs were still plump. “You’re quite a lovely little thing now, aren’t you?” She wrapped her in a blanket, then picked her up and carried her over to the fire that burned in the grate.
“What is that?”
Geneva glanced over her shoulder to see her eldest son, ten-year old Malcolm, standing near the door. “It’s a child,” she cooed.
“Not that,” he muttered in cold voice. He pointed to the bed and Rose. “That. Father will be furious when he sees what you’ve brought home. That filthy wretch should go back to the gutter where she belongs with the rats and the lice and the other Irish rubbish. And she can take her ugly Irish child with her.”
Geneva found it difficult to believe that she’d given birth to both Malcolm and Edward. Edward was sweet and caring and Malcolm was the exact opposite, spiteful and foul-tempered. Edward had inherited Geneva’s compassionate streak and Malcolm had taken after his cold and ruthless father, a man who never passed up a chance to give voice to his prejudices. “The Bible tells us to be charitable to those less fortunate,” Geneva murmured as she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead.
Malcolm scoffed. “Is that what you call this, Mother? Charity? Or are you just trying to replace Charlotte again? It didn’t work last time and it won’t work this time.”
“No one could ever replace your sister,” Geneva said.
It was obvious Malcolm was fully aware of the incident that had sent her to the hospital just six months after Charlotte’s death. She hadn’t meant to just walk off with the little girl in the park, but she’d looked so much like Charlotte and Geneva had become confused. When they’d arrived home, the authorities had been called and money paid to silence the parents of the little girl.
“She’s dead,” Malcolm screamed, “and she’ll never come back and it’s all your fault. Papa told you not to take her with you to London. He said there was sickness there. But you never listen to him. You’re the one who took her away.” He rushed over to Geneva and grabbed the girl’s foot, giving it a vicious yank.
“Ow,” Grace cried. “Bad boy!”
“Charlotte was the only one in this family who loved me and you took her away.”
Geneva felt the emotions well up inside her and she turned on her son, slapping him across the face. She had said the same words to herself over and over, every hour of every day for the past three years. It had been her fault. They would have been safe in Ireland, but there had been a new exhibit at the National Gallery that she’d been certain Charlotte would enjoy, so they’d traveled together.
“I am your mother and you will not speak to me in that manner again.”
Malcolm laughed. “No great loss, Mother. You’ve gone so far ’round the bend that you don’t understand half of what’s said in this house anyway.” He stalked out of the room, brushing by Edward, who had taken up a spot at the door.
Geneva sent her youngest son a wavering smile and he immediately returned it, then came rushing toward her. “Don’t listen to him, Mummy. I think you did a very fine thing bringing the poor lady and her little girl home with us. We’ll make them both better.”
“We will, won’t we,” Geneva said. “Now, you run and see if you can find Mummy’s maid. Ask her to go to the nursery and see if she can find one of Charlotte’s old nightgowns in the chest. I believe I saved a few just to have around for my grandchildren.”
“I’ll go look for them,” Edward offered.
Geneva had only one ally in the house and that was Edward. He’d always tried his best to make her happy, to take her mind off the dark thoughts that seemed to plague her daily. If it came down to it, Edward would stand up for her against her husband and her older son. Though he was only seven, he was wise beyond his years and knew exactly how to get what he wanted. And that was usually no more than the means to make his mother smile.
“You’re a good boy,” she whispered as she watched him run out of the room. “And I will always love you the best.”
CHAPTER TWO
“IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO WAKE up now.”
Rose drifted toward consciousness, following the voice of the child. Was it Mary Grace who was speaking to her? Mary Grace hadn’t learned to string many words together yet. And she didn’t speak with an English accent. Had she died and gone to heaven? Was it an angel’s voice she was hearing?
“Open your eyes,” the child whispered.
She felt fingers touch her face and Rose willed herself to do as she was told. Her eyes fluttered open and she found herself staring into the face of a young boy, his dark hazel eyes ringed with jet black lashes. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Would you like a drink of water?” the boy asked.
Rose nodded and he held a cut-crystal tumbler up to her lips. She sipped slowly at the cool liquid, letting it slide across her parched lips and tongue. And when she could drink no more, she fell back into the down-filled pillows. “My daughter,” she murmured. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
The little boy nodded. “Mummy has put her to bed in the nursery.”
“She’s alive?” Rose asked.
The boy frowned, then nodded. “Mummy was feeding her and then she fell asleep. She ate a little bowl of porridge and her belly got very fat.” He held out his hands in front of his stomach.
Rose closed her eyes and smiled. Mary Grace was alive and so was she. Somehow, she’d ended up in a beautiful room, in a comfortable bed, watched over by the young boy. And her daughter had been given a meal. God had finally answered her prayers.
“There’s food,” he said. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Yes,” Rose replied. As she tried to sit up, she realized how weak she was. Her head spun and her arms were barely strong enough to support her weight. The little boy helped her tuck a pillow behind her back, then set a tray beside her on the bed.
“The porridge is cold. So is the tea. But there is bread and butter and some of the ham we had for supper last night. I’ll fetch you something to drink. Would you like that?”
“Stay here for a bit,” Rose said. “Tell me who you are and where I am. How did I get here?”
The boy sat down on the edge of the bed. “My name is Edward Porter. I’m seven years old. My father is Lord Henry Porter and my mother is Geneva. And I have a brother named Malcolm.” He glanced around. “This is my house, Porter Hall. My sister, Charlotte, used to live here but she got a fever and died and now she’s gone to heaven.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rose said.
He shrugged. “Everyone says that.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Oh, yes. Terribly. But Mummy says she’s with the angels in heaven and she watches over me. Sometimes at night, she comes into my room and talks to me.”
Rose nibbled at the bread, taking small bites until she felt the food begin to fill her stomach. “How did I get here?”
“We found you at the church,” Edward explained. “And we put you in our motorcar and brought you home.”
“Have I been here long?”
He shook his head. “It was morning and now it’s evening. Papa will be home soon and he will be very cross with Mummy. Malcolm says he’ll send you to the poorhouse. But you mustn’t be scared.”
Rose pushed the tray aside, then slipped from beneath the bed covers and swung her legs to the floor. She stared down at herself, surprised to find that she’d been dressed in a lacy nightgown and her hands and feet were clean. “I have to leave then,” she said. “Will you help me find my clothes?”
“No,” Edward cried. “You must stay. Mummy will make it right, you’ll see.”
“What is going on in here?” A woman, wearing a beautifully detailed afternoon dress, bustled into the room. Her pale hair was pulled back into a tidy knot. Her lovely face was marked by delicate and refined features. Rose had a vague memory of her voice. This must be the little boy’s mother— and Rose’s savior.
“Get back into bed,” she ordered, her words spoken in aristocratic English. “You are far too weak to be walking about. Edward, I asked you to look after our guest.”
“This is my mummy,” Edward told Rose.
Rose tried to stand, but her legs were weak and her knees buckled. She sat on the edge of bed, a bit dizzy with the effort. “Thank you so much for your kindness, ma’am. But I wouldn’t think to impose on you and your family any longer.”
The woman frowned, her arms hitched on her waist. “You’re educated,” she said. “You don’t speak like a common Irish girl.”
“I know how to read and write,” Rose said. “My grandmother taught me when I was just six years old, so that I might—” Rose stopped and glanced around the room, a sudden panic gripping her. “Where are my things? The bundle that I had with me? I must find it.” She tried to rise again, but Edward skipped over and handed her the leather-bound diary.
“Is this what you want?” he asked. “I put it in my pocket to keep it safe.”
Rose took the diary and clutched it to her chest. “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you. I couldn’t bear to lose this.” She sighed. “I’d like to see my daughter. Could you take me to her, ma’am?”
“You may call me Lady Porter,” the woman said. “And before we do that, you and I must speak. My husband will be home soon and we must prepare a good story for him. Have you ever worked in a house like this?”
Rose shook her head. “No. But when I first came to Dublin, I worked for a well-to-do Irish family. The Dunleavys. Mr. Dunleavy owned a dry goods store.”
“And what did you do for them?”
“I was a laundress. But I also did sewing for Mrs. Dunleavy and her daughters. I made them gowns and I mended their clothes. I’m very good with a needle and thread and I can operate a sewing machine. My grandmother taught me well. I can make a dress from any fashion plate you might show me. And I do fine embroidery.” She pointed to Lady Porter’s gown. “Like that.”
“Then when you have recovered from your ordeal, you will work for me as a laundress and a seamstress. That way, you can watch your daughter while you work. We will find a room for you above the carriage house where you might be…out of the way.”
Rose stared at Lady Porter, unable to believe her good fortune. “Oh, ma’am, that is far too kind. You’ve already done enough.”
“Nonsense. It becomes more difficult daily to find good help and you’re motivated to work hard. You’ve had an education of sorts, which recommends you as well. And both of us know you would never last another week out on the streets. Now, your wages won’t be much, since we will also be supporting your daughter.”
“I don’t need wages, ma’am. I’ll work for food and a warm place to sleep.”
“We’ll discuss this when you’re well. Now, there is one other thing. And you must be truthful about this. The child. Was she born out of wedlock?”
“Oh, no,” Rose replied. “No, I was married. My husband was—” She paused. If they knew the truth of Jamie’s political activities, the Porters might not be so glad to have the wife of an IRA sympathizer working in their very English household. “He died. Three years ago. It was an accident. He fell while he was helping a friend to repair a roof.” She promised herself to say a rosary for the lie.
“How tragic,” Lady Porter said. “And how long were you on the street?”
“Three months,” Rose said.
“You must have been quite resourceful to have survived that long. That quality will serve you well in this household.” She held out her hand. “Lie back now and finish eating. You need a good night’s sleep. You can see Grace in the morning.”
“Mary Grace,” Rose corrected. “Her name is Mary Grace.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure she’ll be quite happy to see her mother in better health. But she’s sleeping now herself and it wouldn’t do to wake her.”
Lady Porter took Edward’s hand and led him to the door. “Come, let’s leave Rose to rest. We must see if we can convince Malcolm to take our side in this matter before your father returns.”
When Rose was alone, she tried again to stand, holding on to the bedpost for support. She took a few steps, then a few more, feeling her strength beginning to return. She grabbed a small blanket from the end of the bed, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then slipped out of the room.
The hallway was dimly lit and quiet. Her bare feet brushed against the soft wool carpets and she peered in each door, searching for her daughter. When she found what looked to be a nursery, she stepped inside, then realized she wasn’t alone. Lady Porter sat in a rocking chair near the window, Mary Grace in her arms.
“Aren’t you my pretty girl, Lottie,” she cooed. “You’ve come home to me at last. And this time, I’ll never let you go.”
Rose stepped inside the room, ready to correct her. Why was she having such a difficult time remembering Mary Grace’s name? And why did Lady Porter insist that Mary was napping when she wasn’t? But as she watched Lady Porter, Rose began to realize that all was not right with the woman. She continued to talk to the child as if she were much older.
In then end, Rose returned to the hallway, an uneasy feeling settling over her. For now, she’d accept the Porter’s hospitality and her hostess’s odd behavior. She didn’t have any choice. The dangers out on the streets of Dublin were far worse than any danger she and Mary Grace might face inside the walls of Porter Hall.
“GENEVA, THIS IS ABSURD. You cannot bring home an Irish peasant and her brat like they were stray animals. This behavior only proves you still haven’t recovered fully.”
Edward stood in the hallway outside his father’s library, hidden in the shadows as he listened to his parents’ conversation. Though he knew it was wrong, eavesdropping was the only way he ever really discovered what was happening inside Porter Hall. Most of the servants paid him little heed, for they assumed he didn’t comprehend most of what was being discussed by the adults. And Malcolm took great delight in keeping the secrets he’d been privy to.
There was only one thing Edward truly didn’t understand and that’s why he continued to listen. Something was not right with his mother, but no one would say what it was. She’d had to go away after Charlotte had died and though he wasn’t sure exactly how long she’d been gone, it had been a long time. If she was going to be sent away again, this time he wanted to know why.
“What was I to do?” she asked. “Let them both die? That poor child needed my help. At least there was something I could do.”
“They’re Irish. They have their damn free state now. Let them take care of their people the way they always wanted to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geneva said. “She was close to death. How was she supposed to care for that little girl?”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on outside this house, Geneva? Have you any conception what this family has had to face in the past ten years? With the uprising and the civil war, we have been teetering on the edge of ruin. It’s been all around you and you’ve been completely oblivious.”
“I read the papers, Henry. I’m aware of the political climate in Ireland.”
“Well, let me give you a better account of it, just to be certain. We used to have a good life here. A prosperous life, a life that my father blessed us with when we married. I was happy to take over the enterprises in Ireland. But now, we live here in—in exile.”
“That’s not true, Henry.”
“Oh, no? When the troubles started, my brother and father didn’t hesitate to sell anything that might fetch a good price. They left me with the mills and the mines they couldn’t get rid of. Let Henry have them,” he muttered. “He’ll be grateful for that much.”
Edward’s father stood and walked over to the whiskey decanter, then poured himself a drink. He took a long swallow, then turned back to his mother. “Now that this country belongs to the Irish again, our property is worth only what an idiot Irishman might pay for it. We’re trapped here, Geneva, with no way out.”
“The uprising was put down. The civil war is over,” Geneva said. “You employ hundreds of Irish workers who want to work. I can’t see how we’re headed for ruin, Henry.”
“I served in parliament, I helped run this country. And now, suddenly I have no say in how this government treats my interests. That’s decided by the Irish now and their damned Diál Eireann. And with them in charge, this country is doomed to fail.”
“Irish, British, free state, republic, Catholic, Protestant, what does it all matter? We have a home and you have a livelihood. You make a comfortable living. You’re a smart man, you can make what you have a success. The terrible times are ended. We have two sons and we must make the best of it.”
Edward peeked into the library and watched as his father stared into his glass. “The terrible times have only just begun, Geneva,” he muttered. “As long as Ulster is under control of the British, the people in this country will never rest. Another civil war is just around the corner.”
“Then perhaps we should stop thinking of ourselves as English and consider ourselves Irish. We’ve lived here through all the troubles, for nearly fifteen years. Our future is here. This is our home and we are not visitors in this country.”
“You are mad,” Henry muttered.
Geneva shook her head, her voice quivering. “I—I am not mad. You live in your world of comfort and wealth, you employ these people in your mills and mines and take advantage of them every day. But you never look at them, you never see them. They’re good people. They survive on nothing, trying to support their families on pay that isn’t enough for one, much less seven or eight.”
“And you live in the same world with me,” he said, his voice angry and accusing. “My money buys those beautiful gowns you wear and pays for your trips to London and for your spiritualists and fortune tellers.” Edward’s mother gasped. “What? You didn’t think I knew about them? Those charlatans preying on your grief.” He cursed, then sat down behind his desk.
Everyone in the family had changed since Charlotte’s death, Edward thought. Malcolm had become mean and nasty, deliberately inflicting pain on his younger brother whenever he could. His father stayed away from home as much as he could and when he was home he was cold and unapproachable and often drunk. And his mother… Edward drew a ragged breath. Some days she was just like she used to be, happy and lighthearted, laughing at the silly stories he told. And other days, she wouldn’t come out of her room, caught up in the midst of one of her black moods.